Yesterday I visited one of the colleges in the Philadelphia area. Most campuses are open to the public, and it seemed like a perfect Fall morning to find a bench and catch up on a knitting project. As I entered the parking lot, I slowed. The lot was nearly full. Wait, what?
It was move-in day.
Across the grounds, students and parents stood in lines of 20 or 30, anxious for introductions to people they were meeting for the first time. Boxes and furniture were hauled from cars and trucks and moved into dorms. Faculty members trotted in and out of buildings. Parents gingerly backed their vehicles into and out of parking spaces. “What an exciting day for them,” I thought. But not for me.
I spotted a space and rushed for it, pulled in. There were no signs forbidding parking. I bit my lip and sat for a moment, feeling a little guilty when a father, lugging a set of plastic containers, gave me an irritated glance. Heck.
I grabbed my knitting bag, exited the car, and walked towards an open bench just past the driveway. Whoa! Directly across from the bench was a line of animated students waiting for their campus welcome and tour. I stared, then turned back toward the car.
I was disappointed, but the truth is I was visiting their home. It was as if I had arrived uninvited to a generous feast of sweet treats, pizzas, and flowers. Resignation and courtesy were my only options.
I looked around again. The campus was renovated over the summer, and the bench I had always used was no longer there. However, about 75 feet away, there were two benches just across from the track. A couple of students (kids to me) occupied one of them. Lines? Nope. I use a cane and don’t like walking across grass, and I could feel a whine coming on. As I plopped down, a little tired from my trek, on the bench next to the students, they paused their conversation and greeted me.
I’ve begun a new morning habit of setting an intention for the day. My intention this morning was to listen. To birds. To cars. To the wind. So, that is what I did; I listened and learned that the young man and woman were seniors, excited about being on campus and catching up on summer news.
She: “Peter and Maggie had a baby.”
He: “What?! Wow! Did they finally get married?”
She: “Yup. Isn’t that a trip?”
Feigning attention to my needles to stretch out the time, I pulled threads, making six short rows into one.
She: “It’s so good to see you!”
He: “Can you believe it’s our last year?”
She: “No! (Pause) It’s going to go by too fast.”
My heart fluttered. Memories of my own college years — that went by too fast — surfaced. I never made friends like these two. I was often alone, the chronic introvert. After a semester, I left school and joined a theater company. The theater was where I met my buddies. The theater was where I belonged. In the theater, we were bold, young, and unafraid. I imagined these seniors to be the same.
He: “I can’t wait to see everybody again.”
She: “Do you think Maggie will bring her baby?”
I listened. Here’s the thing: I will never see my first theater mates again. Almost all of them have passed away. Drugs. Cancer. Old age.
The sun was now fully on my face, and perspiration dripped into the corners of my eyes.
“It’s been so lovely listening to you guys,” I said. “But the sun is roasting me.”
I stood as they laughed and waved. I looked back toward the bench I had started for initially. It was empty, and there were no lines. I headed for it, looking forward to being in the shade of that marvelously large tree.
Opposite that bench was another where three young women sat. (There are lots of benches on this campus.) Once again, I listened. They were juniors or sophomores, cheerleaders, practicing old and new chants for the year. As I approached, a young woman with glorious dreadlocks looked up and greeted me. She wasn’t just being polite. Her smile held her heart.
A helicopter flew overhead.
“I’ve never seen a pink helicopter!” I said.
“It was yellow, I think,” she smiled.
I smiled back.
Thinking about it now, I feel teary-eyed. Any one of the students I met would have offered me and my cane a seat on the bus. Kindness and respect. After about 30 minutes, I put my knitting away. The young women were leaving to meet their friends. The young man I had seen earlier was passing by and gave a wave, a big smile, and a nod of his head to this grey-haired knitter.
As he made his way to some event or other, the thought came to me: I don’t need to worry about our future. Young Folks, you are doing just fine.
Sala
wordshavecolor.com 
January 2020 to January 2021. Yes, We Will Find Joy.
It’s a snowy day in February 2021. I am complaining. January 2020 was the beginning of a year that I could never have imagined.
At the end of that month, I was sharing a home-baked, red velvet birthday cake with friends. I had just turned 72, and the celebration deserved one of my friend Bob’s elegant cakes.
“Oh my God!”
Vinny checked his cell phone and put his beverage down. The helicopter carrying Kobe Bryant, his daughter, and their friends, had fallen out of the sky. Bryant had been a beloved local personality, and it felt like the air was sucked out of the room. As we pivoted from celebration to sorrow, I could hardly believe that, once again, we were looking at the sudden death of a vibrant man known for his devoted support of young people, while some of the meanest, vilest politicians in our country seemed impervious to death.
Bryant’s death began a traumatizing year, one that would test the heartiest among us. A month later, as the stories about a new virus began to dominate the media, people hunched their shoulders and started wearing masks. My friends and I were asking, “How can we elect a new president?” because we were sure he’d caused the problem in the States. To answer this question, I participated in activities to get people out to vote.
I released my home health aide after she told me I was “overthinking” the virus, and fretted for a bit about all the tasks I would have to take on. Now alone, with no one visiting my home, I did what it made sense to do when humanity seems out of control: I turned to nature, to the trees in the forest across the road.
While the television droned in the background and I chopped celery and onions into cubes, maybe for a salad, or mashed potatoes, or perhaps, a lentil shepherd’s pie, I wondered out loud to the trees: Is it self-indulgent to write food stories?
Colorful bowls overflowing with fruit were testimony to the beauty of living in a global world: oranges from South Africa. Apples from New Zealand. Avocados from Mexico. Blueberries from Peru. And tomatoes…ahhh. Beautiful Canada.
I prayed that my anger would not affect the food. You see, I believe this to be the truth: whatever my mood, that energy goes directly from my mind and heart to my arms to my hands and into the food. I did not want to eat these negative vibrations.
Oh, the trees. My relationship with trees is mysterious. I watch them as if they are my children. From the first buds of spring to the death of their leaves when they are bombarded by sleet and buffeted by the wind, they are my constant companions. I “feel” them speak to me. Before you shake your head in pity, listen.
Several years ago, I lived next to a city park, which gave my second-floor apartment the feeling of being in a treehouse. Many years before that, I lived in an apartment along the Willamette River in Oregon. Trees surrounded the apartment. There have always been the trees.
One morning, during meditation in my “treehouse” apartment, I heard a message inside my heart.
“Don’t worry. We are your protection.”
I believed then, and I do now, that the spirit of the trees spoke to me.
The year rolled on, and on May 25, I watched as a reptile in human skin – sworn to protect the public – put his knee on a man’s neck and stared into the camera for eight minutes and 46 seconds. He did not remove his knee until George Floyd was dead.
The raindrops on the trees outside my window clung to the branches like tears. I cried too. In July I posted about police abuses. I did not write about food. Would we ever again find joy?
2020 dragged on. Christmas was, thankfully, quiet. No guests. No poultry or stuffing. No hand-crafted pie. New Year’s eve, without the college students across the way, was still. There was no disturbance of fireworks. More than 300,000 people had died from the virus. I thanked God that 2020 was over and that we had a new president.
January 1, 2021, I received a phone call. My 90-year-old uncle died that morning from COVID-19. I did not cook the New Year black eye peas called Hoppin’ John, I didn’t make collard greens laced with onions, garlic, and turkey wings. I did not bake cornbread. Instead, I contemplated his being the last in a generation of maternal elders, and what it meant to lose them.
On January 6, terrorists staged an insurrection against the United States. They breached the United States Capitol Building. They terrorized police officers, defecated and urinated in offices, stole items. They searched for legislators and the Vice-President with assassination intentions. These criminals wanted to disrupt the certification of legitimate election results and the peaceful transfer of presidential power. They failed.
I recognized a Truth. As we struggle to make it through these times – and we will struggle – we have to eat; we must find joy. Although for many of us, our food stories will not be found around the table, we will have joyful stories to share. Through the miracle of technology, folks are learning new recipes, discovering new winter soups, baking new breads. A friend is making homemade yogurt, canning and pickling, and sharing these experiments through video technology. We’ll continue to bake Cornish hens and roast chickens. And we’ll brunch Zoom with buddies over the weekend.
I looked out at my snow-covered trees with the answer. Food is what we need to live. Joy makes us resilient. Stories are what give us joy. It is not self-indulgent to write about food.
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Posted in Aging, Commentary, Creative Non-Fiction, Essay, Family memories, Life Stories, Political reflection, Reflection, Writing from the heart